


i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

by acheronianbusker



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Being reworked, Crimson Flower, F/F, Nonbinary Character, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Transfeminine Ferdie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acheronianbusker/pseuds/acheronianbusker
Summary: five gifts the prime minister & first lady of adrestia give each other before they are known with those titles - only i didn't finish it so it's like 2 and a half and only ferdie gets them smh
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work depicts Ferdie as a transfeminine nonbinary person. As such, before she comes out, Dorothea refers to her with her deadname and pronouns. Once she comes out and as her gender expression changes, Dorothea’s internal voice and the way she thinks of Ferdie also changes. By the end of the fic, Dorothea will use feminine terms to describe Ferdie’s name & body. I checked this over with several amab trans people and we thought this might be the best approach, since the fic happens in real-time and is not a flashback, and is entirely from Dorothea’s perspective. Please let me know if you have any concerns with this depiction and we can discuss those concerns.
> 
> The fic is being reworked so some chapters may shuffle around and it may be updated between two currently existing chapters to flesh out some sections, in which case I'll update that info here!

It's fitting, Dorothea thinks to herself, not without bitterness, that Ferdinand's birthday would fall on the sunny skies of a great feast hearkening a Black Eagle victory. 

Professor Byleth's presence is such that they seem to stand out from the crowd automatically - both unassuming and authoritative at the same time. Fully absorbed in their discussion with Ferdinand, they smile serenely and somewhat distantly, making to excuse themselves after a few more minutes of this discussion.Edelgard and Hubert lurk in the shadows, by themselves, as per usual. 

Where many commoners might see the Crown Princess of Adrestia, Edelgard seems made of skin and bone to Dorothea, just like anyone else. Her own time at Mittelfrank was a reminder of that mortality. People would flock to the Operas to be tantalized and titillated by figures so serene they seemed inhuman, yet so tawdry that they could let go of their inhibitions and feel whatever emotions they kept stuffed up under their noble, blue blooded collars when they went home at night and undressed only to have silent sex for the sake of making heirs. Their children would call out for them as they arrived back at their sizable mansions only to be scooped up by wet nurses, somehow leading to a lifelong victim complex of their own making toward their less fortunate counterparts and a host of parental issues that they shamed into some sort of sexual complacency.

The very same crowd that jeered at the women of the Opera as they walked the streets of Enbarr, fixating on their dress, their makeup, their gender presentation, were the very same that would live to visit the Theatre on Saturdays - would dress their own makeup in the "elegant" fashion, a poor imitation of the artists at the Opera themselves. Perhaps it was better than what Ingrid had told her about Faergus's own customs in hushed tones, where men would play both male and female parts, women not even allowed to grace the stage for propriety's sake. Adrestia was slightly better - same-sex relations were not as frowned upon and heirs were important but once a territory had an heir, the ruling couple was free to do as it pleased. Not that she gave a fig about ruling nobles, but it was sadly something enmeshed into the recesses of her mind after one-too-many tea invitations to noble estates where she would be simultaneously fawned upon and studied.

In private at their tea parties, they would whisper of the gaffes and seem scandalized; as she stared across the audience during her performances in her half-decade on stage, Dorothea knew the truth of them, what hid behind that mask. And it was none other than Ferdinand that almost seemed an open book to her. Maybe not just to her, to everyone. What was most unique about him was that he was so uneventful and dull a creature that he had no such desires. He could not fathom such an ignoble life as to take pleasures in things other than wealth and tea. 

What to say about Ferdinand, who somehow managed to be distinctly unpopular in his arrogant manner and yet deeply charismatic, able to hold conversations about any topic at the center of the scene.

She hated him. She hated the way he could speak to her peers, full of direct yet unhelpful criticism of the way they dressed and their comport, as though material comforts were such a non-issue that he had nothing better to do than mock others for whatever failings of theirs he could perceive to boost his own ego. 

And yet, material comforts seemed all that he would receive. Edelgard and Hubert make their way to him through the crowded dining hall without a soul noticing and present him with a black jewelry box. 

He exclaims with delight at the brooch laid within as though he has never received a better gift in his life. He implores Edelgard to fasten it to his collar, and she does so, though with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He doesn't seem to notice, as he puffs out his chest and grins as though he's won a grand prize. 

It is then Lorenz who makes his move, not to be outdone by the Empire's finest students. He carries a decadently carved wooden box, lined with the finest silk and containing a pair of riding boots so gaudy she almost throws up at the sight. 

Next, Linhardt and Caspar in sync. Caspar rocks on his heels almost violently as he shoves a whetstone and some oil into Ferdinand's arms. This makes her smile - it's typical of Caspar. To her slight interest, Ferdinand thanks him, it looks as genuine as he has ever been in his life. All undone with Linhardt's gift, an unwrapped tome on history Ferdinand seems about to shit himself over. Well if Linhardt was content to proselytize about the Empire's accomplishments with the buffoon, who was she to stop him.

The Kingdom students stare somewhat coldly and stiffly. Most of the Alliance students walk up to congratulate Ferdinand on the momentous task of waking up in the morning. Even Bernadetta musters the courage to walk up to Ferdinand with a delicately embroidered handkerchief inlaid with gold trimmings. It is a tasteful, and expensive gift, Dorothea thinks, raising her eyebrows. The girl darts away before Ferdinand has a chance to say thank you, but he tucks the gift into his pockets nonetheless.

She almost leaves the room then, almost. But it astonishes her when Petra enters the proceedings with a book, neatly wrapped in brown paper. Ferdinand unfolds it delicately as though it is the teachings of Seiros herself, and grins boyishly at the title. Selfish, she thinks. Petra would have brought that book here for herself. She hopes he understands what a sacrifice Petra has made, readily handing him one of the precious few books about Brigid in Fodlan for him to set aside to furiously masturbate to tax ledgers detailing how much money his father had repatriated from the people of Fodlan to fill his own coffers, or whatever it was Ferdinand did in his spare time. Dorothea neither knew, nor cared.

But this much was clear - whoever had planned for Ferdinand to amass such a huge quantity of gifts to add to his father's horde of blood money, they did not ask her to participate. Not that she would have given him anything, regardless. Only that she would have known to step out of the room before humiliating herself this badly in front of her entire class.

Whoever had planned it, they had decided to make it clear to the rest of the Officers Academy that she was an outsider to the Black Eagle house, that she was not the only commoner because she had merited her acceptance; rather, they would claim that she had slept her way into the academy. A deserving reminder to everyone that she was the only commoner in the Black Eagle house - an outsider.

To her immense relief, Professor Byleth slips back into the room and provides a way for her to escape. Ferdinand walks up, no doubt eager to impress his new professor with his stacked-high pile of gifts.

The professor presents to him an expensive-looking Almyran tea wrapped in cloth. That too, like Petra's gift looks to have come from their belongings. His mouth sets - she can tell immediately there's something about the brew he doesn't like - but his eyes shine with pride.

That's the last visual she gets before she slinks away, unnoticed.

* * *

It's late September so of course it's cool and dreary. Somehow it's the sort of day she hated when she was on the streets because it was cloudy and cool, overcast as though a surprise rain could force her to seek shelter in unpleasant places. And yet, undeniably beautiful as the birds chirp over Garreg Mach.

Some time before dinner, Hubert appears outside her room with a special missive - a silver pendant inlaid with rubies and emeralds both, and a gold trimmed outline.

It is not the only expensive jewelry she has received since she joined the Opera - men hoping to buy the spread of her legs with coin or aged wealthy nobles who had set aside their third wives asking for her hand in marriage, only to sometimes break or otherwise ruin the very jewelry they gave her if she refused, as though the wealth of the thing was not even a thought in their minds - nor is it the only expensive jewelry she will receive that day itself.

Notably, Lorenz sends a silver chain and a red rose. The rose, she tosses aside without a second thought, as she does each other assortment of flowers from her admirers. Each subsequent assortment is tossed aside at the earliest convenience - she gives several to different staff members in the kitchen, and a flower each for all of the young children at the monastery. Her classmates - it is odd that none of them seem to know quite what to get her. Bernadetta presents her with another rare treasure, an ornate design weaved into a beautiful choker, almost mahogany-colored and made of a plush fabric. It is beautiful; all the gifts are beautiful, as Dorothea is beautiful. And there is nary another thought put into them. Maybe it is not so odd. She has, after all, designed it precisely to be this way.

Of course, her mood is improved tenfold by the sheet music that Manuela hand-delivers her with a motherly pat to the cheek; the emotion that this evokes in her is tucked neatly into a corner of her heart to be unfolded on a difficult day. After all she has been through, despite the significant amount of gawking, objectification and leering, this is hardly the worst day she has seen. 

And her disposition lifts upon seeing Professor Byleth's gift for her - gemstone beads with which to craft. She gives them a hug at that, and they blush and stutter but return it warmly. Of everyone she has met at Garreg Mach, the Professor is the one she least expected to touch her heart, and the one who has done so with the least resistance.

Which brings us back to the brooch, and how its presentation slices through Dorothea’s inhibitions like a hot knife through butter. It is hardly the only expensive jewelry she has received since she joined the Opera. It is significant, however, in that it is the only birthday present she has seen Edelgard and Hubert present to a classmate that does not have an eagle to signify the Adrestian Empire on its face, and that is when she realizes that Edelgard has commissioned this jewelry specifically for her.

The silver brooch for a classmate and friend, rubies for Adrestia, and emeralds for Dorothea. There is no heraldry because this is not an obligatory gift from one noble to another. Rather, it is a gift without a threat or a promise. 

This is Edie's heart presented to her in a box, Dorothea realizes. She curls her fingers around the pendant in the box, overcome with emotion stuck like honey in her throat - an emotion that only heightens when Hubert ties the pendant around her neck with Lorenz's chain. What Lorenz will think of that at dinner, she hardly knows or cares.

And even after the commotion of the day's passing, in some such way, it is the package left outside her room as dusk creeps across the courtyard that surprises her most of all.

She unfurls the package, wrapped in brown paper and twine. In it, a lovely red comb made from tortoiseshell. She traces the curvature of the handle. It is made for long, curly hair - a Leicester design she recognizes. It is ornate yet sturdy in its design, meant to be used and treasured, cherished and admired.

With it is packaged two things: a batch of freshly cooked sweets and a small mason's jar. Of course he wouldn’t think it was too on the nose, Dorothea muses without surmise as she opens the jar. She hates herself for the small bead of anticipation that wells up in her belly before she wipes it away.

She does not need to sniff the contents to know what it is and she allows a small smile to break forth past her lips as she dips a finger inside to taste it, the lid cast aside. Bees honey, syrupy and sweet and most of all, well-preserved in a cool place over the hot summer months.

She licks the stick of it off of her lips and resolves not to think of him, not when she uses the comb, and absolutely not when the taste of the honey lingers on her tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

A stormy night in April. It's been dark and damp since they left Garreg Mach, a tempest of a dual nature brewing across Fodlan, as though the goddess herself is displeased.

When Dorothea was on the streets, her fear was rooted in the sense of injustice she felt, pushing outwards - toward the society that she was once invisible to, a casualty of the system, a world where the poor were invisible, women's bodies were devalued until they were used to push out babies with crests; her lack of security. Her invisibility.

Now, her fear was existential. She was afraid for the very world she once pushed back against. The people she had once reviled, tried not to grow close to, and found herself caring for anyway. The princess of Adrestia herself, seemingly eating pastries in the comfort of her mansion as Dorothea slept on the streets, watching people die of the cold in the damp, dismal gutters of Enbarr's merciless underbelly. Now she knows the truth; Enbarr was a city that chewed up each of its inhabitants and spit them back out - that the privileged among them were either beleaguered or pitiable for their own naïveté. This applied to not just Enbarr, but all of Fodlan.

Dorothea was disgusted with the world before Edelgard's revolution, and yet somehow, now afraid for that very world that let an orphaned child to rot. And in that same vein, though most of her own affects had been on her person on their journey to the Holy Tomb, a habit formed before she joined the Opera that became a crutch to curb her anxiety over being found an impostor at Garreg Mach (and of course it came in handy, feeding her insecurities until they threatened to take over her whole being), she found it fitting that it was her gift for Ferdie that survived with the least damage of all of the belongings that made the treacherous journey out of the ruins of the monastery. It was fitting because it was the unequaled evidence of her attachment to anyone noble at Garreg Mach, that she even held some degree of affection in her heart for the well-fed and clothed child of the most corrupt Prime Minister that Adrestia had seen in generations.

Ferdie, who was now without a father or a home, found themself as lost as Dorothea was, without rhyme or rhythm, reason or purpose in the world. Who had listlessly climbed to their feet as the rug was pulled out from under them and the clouds cleared from the sky to reveal more and more of the full picture, steeped in a crimson sunset.

It was only so many days in the makeshift camp that she could stand looking at the thing next to her cot as she tried in vain to fall asleep. She made her way to the General's tent, where Ferdie could be found listlessly staring at maps or blinking back their hesitations. This late, Ferdie is the only person there, weary and wary as though the thought of trying to sleep is in itself a threat. The candle burns low in a pool of its own wax. Ferdie leans forward on their palms over the table, jaw clenching and unclenching, muscular stature tense and face gaunt in the low light.

Dorothea finds herself with the urge to brush the pain out of the tightness of their cheeks and squashes that down too. She hesitates in the entrance as though there's any privacy to be respected or maintained in this place. A spark lights in Ferdie's eyes at the sight of her and her heart softens at the sight for the briefest instant, enough to step forward with the unwrapped and dented tin of leaves.

Ferdie takes it, sucking in a breath, and lifts the lid with trembling hands, lifting it to her nose and inhaling deeply. The pale of their hands contrasts with the dirt under their fingernails, the tatter of their shirt.

"You remembered", they seem to find the restraint not to say, lips curling up into the first smile she’s seen on their face in a very long time.

"Yes," she doesn't answer.

And yet, Dorothea takes timid steps toward the far side of the war table, resisting the urge to rock back on the balls of her heels and presses forward, something in Ferdie's mocha-brown eyes compelling her like the flicker of the flame, like the simmering orange of the last embers in the hearth.

She can smell the layers of flavors in the southern blend herself, the harsh notes of black tea, the soothing oolong, dried apples, dried peach, flower petals, essence of summer fruits layered on top of each other. It's far from the most expensive tea stocked at the market, but it's Ferdie in a cup - summery and earthy, filled with sickening sweetness and floral scents. Marked and marred only by the artificial flavors of apricot and mango, undercut by the sense of something sour hiding in its depths. Too sweet, too forward.

But somehow, today, the scent is perfect. In this moment, the true notes of the aroma sing crisper and brighter than any artifice ever could. Dorothea clutches her heart in a vice grip as the adjuvant of her insecurities stares at her, holding their tattered heart out to her on their sleeve.

In this moment, Dorothea never met a noble brat who jeered at her as she bathed the dirt of the streets away; in this moment, Ferdie never saw the very picture of femininity they held as an unearthly canvas on which to mold her own.

And so, though she doesn't know this, it stays in Ferdie's belongings until the end of the war, when the flavor is almost faded and the scent is almost gone, and she opens it to sniff it in the middle of the night when out on missions alone, when waking up from a nightmare, when her father dies at the hands of a mob, when they kill Ingrid, after Tailtean, after Fhirdiad.

After Fhirdiad, Ferdie buys a kettle and drinks the whole tin cup after cup as they mourn the dead and resolves never to have a nightmare again by the time the tin is finished. Dorothea sees the dented tin when they unpack in the Prime Minister's quarters in Enbarr next, finds it holding Ferdie's handkerchiefs, and solves the unasked question of why the pocket over Ferdie's heart and her monogrammed handkerchieves themselves always smells like tea.


	3. Interlude

Hubert has learned to walk so silently these days that even the Ashen Demon herself no longer turns to see who follows her in the dead of the night; he tails his prey through halls and across courtyards. She walks single-mindedly and purposefully, arm at her sword at all times. There has been no ease in her posture since her return. Her Imperial Majesty's trust was a difficult thing to come by; that she gave it so freely to one of _them_ gnawed at Hubert. Blind trust did the crown no favors, now or ever before.

To the cathedral, Hubert follows her, where he anticipates she will meet with someone away from prying ears. It is a poorly-kept secret that the Emperor never stepped foot in the cathedral of her own volition when she was a student at Garreg Mach.

An hour passes. No one arrives. And then, who should appear but the jester.

"Ferdinand," she murmurs. Not loud enough for a normal man to hear, but Hubert is hardly a normal man. "Come sit with me."

Ferdinand starts, almost imperceptibly but Hubert can see the stiff lapel of his coat grow even stiffer and stiller, see his posture change. It is Hubert's job to see such things after all. He smooths down his coat after a pregnant pause between them and sits next to her nonetheless.

It occurs to Hubert that this is the longest he has ever seen the fool silent.

“I did not expect to find you here.” Genuine surprise in the fool’s voice. The thick timbre of emotion the rube wears on his sleeve. And something else - acrimony, poorly disguised. How curious.

He does not leave. The Professor's answers are always opaque, always valuable because of it. Hubert has spent the better part of six years painting a picture of her life in his mind, sending spies to trace back the Blade Breaker's mercenaries as far as they could go. A child with eyes blue like the devil, killing militiamen and bandits alike without a flinch. A child that seldom spoke and never cried.

A child that grew into a sociable, amicable woman. One the majority of the Black Eagle Strike Force showed no qualms about sharing their every weakness with.

And thus, the Professor, always one of few words, says nothing. Ferdinand seems to settle into the silence. Good. Hubert wants nothing more than for them to be comfortable.

* * *

Ferdie thinks the Professor has never given much thought to the decor of the cathedral before. They had spent many an hour here together before the war, Ferdie, Byleth, and Dorothea had. While always solicitous about the welfare of her students and well-dispositioned, Byleth was hardly one to care about religion or propriety as a mercenary and even now.

"Do you know the story of the creation of Arianrhod?"

Ferdie starts again. It is another moment before she speaks, brow furrowed.

"The story of one of the Empires shameful failures, certainly. The city was constructed by House Rowe of the Empire. Upon its completion, House Rowe promptly revolted against the Empire to join the kingdom. It was a glaring oversight."

"Was it?" Byleth asks, voice as light as though she was talking about Lysithea's favorite tea cakes.

"I...must confess I do not understand what you mean."

"An oversight." She explains, as patiently as the first time she had taught Ferdie to heal a cut on her finger.

Ferdie tries to follow and is unable to. "The kingdom was gifted a valuable bulwark against incursions from the south."

But this is not the answer the Professor seeks. Her silence speaks volumes now, as it always does. There are shades of her silence. Sometimes contented, sometimes stormy and malevolent. Sometimes peaceable. Never empty. Ferdie notices the others tease about her inability to read people's eyes and faces, or the nuance in their words.

To her, it is as though they speak in tongues and she speaks a different tongue altogether. But where others see a vacuum beneath the light of the Professor's pupils, Ferdie sees a depth of emotion unlike any she has seen before. How others can think the Professor is unemotional, Ferdie does not know.

Which is why this silence stings enough to bat Ferdie's tongue. She tries to follow their logic back as far as it can go. This riddle does not suit the tension in the room, hard enough to cut with a knife. Each passing moment drives the press of needles into her skins. The silence seems to invert on itself. It is so, glaringly loud, like a cacophony, and Ferdie is but a moment from overstimulation. The silence seems to invert on itself.

"The lord of House Rowe at the time was a famed military leader I think you are familiar with." She does not wait for Ferdie to respond. She is skilled at reading their face, perhaps. It is a strange thing, she always seems to be able to anticipate exactly what Ferdie is going to say before she has a chance to utter a single syllable. It shames Ferdie and incites an ever-bolder curiosity at the same time. "But there are some tales and secrets that have never made it past the southern border, save for perhaps directly to the ears of the Emperor himself."

She looks at the front of the cathedral as she speaks, eyes focused on some locus within the rubble.

"It was speculated in the kingdom that The Empire designed the Silver Maiden to have a few imperceptible faults in the design, in the event that the city was taken or House Rowe turned traitor. So House Rowe itself planted a lead architect, who was to design a system with absolutely no internal flaws; Rowe knew there would be several workers planted directly from Enbarr to pinpoint those weaknesses and be able to exploit them with an unknown technique, that they would then be able to identify with the press of their fingertips." Ferdie inhales sharply.

"This rumor was never verified, of course, but this fueled House Rowe's paranoia. After commissioning the Silver Maiden, Rowe cut off the hands of every worker, naturally," she leans forward onto her haunches, "and then blinded the lead architect. Even if the Silver Maiden was to fall, he would never allow another faultless Fortress City to be designed within the Empire again. Once the rebellion was a decade past and no more troops from Adrestia came, Rowe killed him."

The Sword of the Creator seems to glisten at this. It glows unnaturally in the moonlight, as though a living thing feeds on it, or perhaps as though it is a living thing itself. They do not speak for several minutes.

"It seems we seek similar answers here at night, Ferdinand." She vocalizes as she does on the way to a far-off destination, on a knife's edge between cajoling an injured rabbit from the safety of the bushes before healing it and sending it on its way and coaxing it into her arms to snap its neck with her fingers.

And yet, if Ferdie can trust no one else, she trusts Byleth implicitly. Not because she does not withhold the truth, not because she does not lie, but because she does not hide it. The deceit with Edelgard and Hubert was sudden and devastating. Byleth hides and conceals with the careless ease of a horseman's posture at a slow gallop across an open field.

And Byleth has never led Ferdie astray, not once. The gash that had almost killed Ferdie she can almost still feel pressing against her torso burns with the reminder. Ferdie's life, saved only by Byleth's instruction in healing with the breath, was a debt for that reason alone. Byleth had wanted her to survive the war. Byleth had known there would be a war.

And yet, Byleth was here, with the conquerors of Fodlan. That fact had reassured Ferdie enough to get her through the last five, painful years of the war.

When her Faith in the Goddess had shattered, it was the Professor that had given her something to believe in, filled the void of the Goddess in her life. But the Professor had not just been a mentor, she had been Ferdie's friend. She had had the future Emperor's ear, she needed no ulterior motive to be there for Ferdie, but she had been. And the Professor had spent the last five years on the verge of death. All alone.

And Ferdie was agonizing over a woman. Self-loathing flooded through her senses as she thought of the disparity between their situations. The pain was a familiar press on her heart at this point and she welcomed the ache. The bite was comforting.

"It's alright, Ferdinand." Byleth perceives. Byleth takes her hand, and the touch is so comforting she wants to cry. Byleth would never hold it against her. Byleth would never care how trivial Ferdie's worries were.

"What kind of a masochist do I have to be," Ferdie starts. She can't stop her lip from quivering and she hates it. She loathes this, her lack of control over these emotions. She hates herself for it. "that I know how much she hates me and I love her anyway. I keep going back no matter how much she hurts me. Because I deserve it."

"I don't know if I want the pain to stop. It keeps me going. It keeps me together." She clutches at Byleth's hand in a vice grip. Byleth is soft and steady against her.

“I know." Byleth says simply.

"But Professor, my heart is breaking." She leans on Byleth's shoulder, tucking into the crook of her neck.

“Mine too."

Byleth is crying.

* * *

Hubert does not hear the Professor's last words, but it matters little. He's heard what he needed to hear. He slinks away to join the Emperor for her nightly rituals. He can make it to the dormitories before the watchman makes his third round if he leaves now.

On the other side of the big doors that open to the cathedral, Dorothea clutches her hand over her mouth. Tears drip down her face like the morning dew.


End file.
